


Ghost of the Great Plains

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1870s Western AU. Two bodies lead Sheriff Dean Winchester to the outskirts of Stull Township to hunt down the Ghost of the Great Plains; a crazy fucking priest with a thirst for murder. What he finds isn't what he expected. What happens is even more surprising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost of the Great Plains

Dean Winchester lowered the wide brim of his Stetson to shield his eyes from the sun. Here, on the outskirts of Stull Township, the plains stretched far, flat and desolate as the eye could see; burnt to a crisp under the relentless heat of the Kansas sun. Good folk had died out here, bodies left for the coyotes to clean up.

Good folk gutted by a priest.

He let out a breath as a stiff breeze touched his skin, leaving it dry and irritated. The leather saddle groaned beneath his shift in weight, the reins tight in his gloved hands. His girl stomped her hoof impatiently and kicked back her head, her mane wild about her muscled neck. A good strong saddle horse, his girl; just as temperamental as he was—a perfect match out here where any quiet moment could turn chaotic.

As she neighed, snorting out dry air, he patted her affectionately before returning his eyes to the horizon. In the plains, on the very cusp of danger, he had found home. A purity he’d never experienced anywhere else. A smile spread across his face, the thrill of hunting down another outlaw thrumming in his bones. With a swift nudge, his girl kicked off into a proud, quick trot to the north.

The morning’s search had turned up nothing. Somewhere between Old Hickory Creek and High Point Rock, they stopped for lunch, nearly half a day’s ride from Stull. He slumped against an old tree while his girl nosed through the dead underbrush to get at the shallow roots underneath. After he’d finished his rations, gulped down a bit of water from his canteen, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and watched the horizon. Outlaws the likes of Jesse James and John Wesley Hardin were out there; good men like Wild Bill Hickok quick on their heels. The essence of the Frontier swelled with train robbers, gunslingers—bad people making lives miserable for good folk.

He looked down at the sheriff’s star on his chest, polishing it with his sleeve. Proud. Following in his poppa’s footsteps. He smiled again and sent his attention skyward, to the buzzards circling overhead. Distracted, he almost didn’t notice his girl shambling over, nose to the ground. Closer. Sneaking as if she were up to no good. With the quick jolt of her neck, she snatched the apple he’d bought from Miss Lisa right out of his hand. Gone before he could let out a word in protest. If horses could smile, she surely did.

Quickly after that, they packed up and renewed their patrol. It wasn’t long before the sun hung low in the sky, orange blazing like fire against blue. Shadows crept along rock as night creatures slithered out of their burrows. In the distance, a coyote let out a howl, a call for the hunt, as twilight stretched over the Great Plains.

“Nothing out here but coyotes and dirt,” he grumbled to himself. He should turn around, high-tail it back to Stull. He’d make it there by early morning, just in time for Miss Ellen’s famous eggs and grit. The thought of fresh milk made his mouth water, churned his gut with a flash moment of homesickness. Where he should have turned around and headed toward home, he paused. Listened.

Someone yelled for help.

His hand flew to his Colt, pulling it from its holster. He kicked his girl and with a loud neigh, she bolted into a gallop, hooves thundering against the dry earth. The distant, darker forms of two men tumbled to the ground, a cloud of dirt marking their scuffle. He jerked his girl to a stop along side of them, just as one of the men started to strangle the other.

“Tell me where he is!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped down, bringing his Colt to bear. “Let him go!”

The man sent a cold glare over his shoulder, a frown carved deep into his face. Intense blue eyes stared back at him, jaw line strong and masculine, dusted with day-old stubble. His cassock, buttoned only to the waist, fluttered around him as the dry wind picked up, black trousers breathing against his legs. Not budging, the man—the crazy goddamn _priest_ —tightened his hold on the rosary beads around his victim’s neck. The man gasped out a strangled breath and thrashed.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” the priest said with a deep, dark voice; darker than the shadows themselves.

“… help me..”

“I said let him go!”

He pulled back the hammer of his gun, pointing it at the priest. Reluctantly, the outlaw loosened his grip, untangling the rosary beads from the man’s neck and stepped back. The man struggled for breath, clawing at dirt and rock, and lifted a hand to his throat. Dean flicked his eyes to him momentarily, gun still aimed at the priest. “You okay?”

The slow smile that oozed onto the man’s face—inhuman, deranged—sent a shudder down his spine. A look of pure evil; a stare that pierced his flesh and went right through him. “You shouldn’t meddle in affairs that aren’t yours.”

The man blinked. His eyes went completely black.

Dean froze still, couldn’t move when the black-eyed man reached for his gun. Out of nowhere, in his moment of shock, his gun-arm hand been grabbed. A shot fired off and hit the black-eyed man in the shoulder, kicking his gun out wide. With a scream, thick black smoke poured out of his mouth and shot into the sky. Dean stared slack-jawed, didn’t have time to recover from what he’d seen. Before he knew it, his arm whipped down and met a knee, loosening his grip and launching the gun clear out of his fingers. With his arms behind his back, with his world suddenly tipped forward, he found himself face-first in the dry grass, sputtering dirt from his mouth. Quick hands wrapped his wrists in… rosary beads, locking them tight without remorse.

The priest.

“W—what the hell are you doing?”

“Saving your life.”

“Bullshit—“

The priest flipped him over onto his back, that intense stare picking apart his broken pieces. He couldn’t even mouth words, throat tight with cotton. Under the scrutiny of those blue eyes, conscious thought had been stolen from him.

“My apologies.”

Dean opened his mouth. The last thing he saw was the priest’s fist.

:::

“He awake yet?”

“No. An’ even if he was, you’re gonna let him rest up before you have a go at him with all your questions.”

“Woman—“

Dean groaned and nestled his head into… pillows. The bed tipped as added weight sat on its edge, gentle fingers touching his shoulder. “Dean? You okay—”

“How’d I get here?” he rasped out.

“Just showed up, honey. Strapped down to your horse.” The rough, motherly tone of Miss Ellen soothed his ears, contradicted by Rufus’ boom of a voice, demanding and direct. “Who dun it, kid?”

“Would you just—“

“The priest,” he said, cutting her chastisement short.

“The Ghost of the Great Plains?” Ellen asked breathlessly.

“He ain’t no ghost. No one believes in that old wives’ tale,” Rufus snapped. The old deputy nodded his head toward Dean. “Where?”

“Found ‘im out by Settler’s Ridge, strangling a man—“

“Settler’s Ridge? Why in the goddamn hell—“

“I don’t know.” Settler’s Ridge. In the middle of nowhere. “All I know is… none of this is right.”

“Damn straight. Man of the cloth murderin’ good folk? Ain’t right at all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ellen crossed herself, mumbled a fleeting word to God. Always had been the religious type, Miss Ellen. Maybe they needed God right more than ever—if He existed. What he saw out there…

“Rufus, what I saw out there…” he echoed shallowly.

“Murder’s tough, kid,” Rufus chimed in. “Out here? You get used to it.”

But that wasn’t what he meant. Murder was different than a man with black eyes, with a cloud of black smoke gushing out of his mouth. Murder he could understand, but this—

“I gotta go back out there.”

“Now, you just wait a minute—”

“No, Rufus. I got a duty to do. Saving people, hunting outlaws? It’s my job. You know that.”

“Just like your daddy,” Ellen whispered.

“Listen here, boy. Whatever happens in Settler’s Ridge is Lawrence’s problem. Ain’t no sense in you risking your life—“

“Lawrence has bigger problems, Rufus. They aren’t gonna care about a priest strangling folk when they have… _train robbers_ to deal with!” he growled, throwing up his hands.

Rufus frowned.

“That’s why I gotta go.”

He sat up and threw aside the blankets. A wave of dizziness hit him full on, the source of the throbbing pain right over his eye socket. Ellen lay soft fingers on his shoulder, the brush of a touch on his cheek. “You’re in no condition to go out savin’ the world.”

“Ellen,” he said sternly, fixing her with a leveled stare. “I’m fine.”

She dropped her hand, her kind face twisted in a frown. “Well… at least have some breakfast first before you go out gettin’ yourself killed.”

“Breakfast?” he asked, surprised. “What time is it?”

“Breakfast time,” Rufus deadpanned, walking off toward the kitchen.

Dean looked out the window. Light streamed in, the endless stretch of blue Kansas sky marking another summer morning. _Morning_. “Shit.”

He jumped up from the bed, slipping on his boots and grabbing his hat. From the small kitchen, Rufus called out, “What’s your hurry, boy?”

“He’s more than a day’s ride north. I gotta go.”

“You ain’t leavin’ without breakfast,” Ellen huffed, arms crossed over her chest.

Dean smashed his Stetson on his head, crossing the distance between the door and the kitchen in three long steps. He stuffed his mouth with eggs, washed it down with milk, before grabbing three biscuits and an apple. He winked at her as she rolled her eyes, stopping dead in his tracks in front of the door. Over it hung the rosary, the same intricately-carved string of beads the outlaw used to tie him up. He cradled his foodstuff in one arm and snatched the rosary from its peg, clearing the threshold of the small house. Out in the hot Kansas air, he packed his girl’s saddlebag with the apple and biscuits, hooking his foot into the saddle’s stirrup. Before he could climb up—

“Boy, you got a lot of nerve leavin’ us here.”

“Look, Rufus,” he growled out, settling on top of the saddle. “I got a job to do and that’s stopping murderin’ outlaws like that priest from killin’ good folk. Stull’s in good hands.” Dean plucked the sheriff’s star from his vest. Polished like new, it glimmered in the sunlight, boasting years of putting down outlaws. It had been his poppa’s, passed down to him, and now—

Dean tossed it to him. Rufus caught it and looked at it, bewildered. “Stull’s got a new sheriff. Take good care of these people.” Before Rufus could say a word— “I’ll be back for that.”

With a wink, he kicked his girl and they sped off through town and out into the plains.

:::

He’d been tracking him for a full day when the trail ran cold, as if the priest had… up and disappeared. Dean frowned into the shallow stream, its murky depths a place for his troubled thoughts. Issuing a quick breath, he cupped his hands, splashing water on his face to cool his skin… and frustrations.

The way his girl jolted, startled, wasn’t enough warning.

A cold blade pressed against his throat, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You shouldn’t have come for me.”

That voice again—darker than night, low pitch rougher and deeper than good, stiff whiskey. Unmindful of himself, he eased back into it, closing his eyes for a second before remembering who he was; Dean-fucking-Winchester.

“Had no choice,” he bit out, grabbing and twisting his wrist. Together, they tumbled, fighting for dominance. Quicker, lighter, and somehow stronger, the priest gained control, straddling his hips with toned thighs. Dean struggled, tried to throw a punch but missed. The outlaw grabbed his hands, sending them up and over his head, locked tight and pressed hard into the riverbed rock. Dean tried to thrust his hips up, to toss the bastard off, but the priest held firm, tightening his thighs.

Trapped, unable to move let alone breathe, he lay there, staring at the priest—this Ghost of the Great Plains. Handsome for a man, blue eyes clear and bright; like a cloudless Kansas sky. He didn’t look like a ruthless killer, like many of the outlaws he’d seen or heard about. Instead, he looked like an angel.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked suddenly.

The priest tilted his head.

“Doctor Robert, the whore Darla.. why’d you gut them and leave them for the coyotes? They were good people.”

The priest stared at him for a good while and then looked heavenward. His long throat rippled with a hard swallow before his blue eyes found him again. He licked his lips and opened his mouth but stopped. A frown creased the lines on his face. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Demons—“

“You know what? I’m gonna stop you right there, you crazy bastard.”

Dean thrust his hips again, to buck him off. But the priest didn’t budge, laying flush against his chest to keep him still. “There are demons among us. What you saw—“

“I don’t know what I saw,” he hissed low, faces inches from each other. “I don’t _want_ to know.”

They stared at each other. The priest studied his face, blue eyes dropping down to his lips. The closeness, the heat between them, the lethality of this cold-hearted killer—

The priest tilted his head and looked down between their hips—his cock picked the wrong time to signal a full-on salute. Dean didn’t have time to acknowledge his embarrassment. Instead, he used the distraction to turn the tables, to flip the priest over front-first, his face pressed hard against the river rocks. He slipped the rosary beads from his belt – “Remember these?” – and fastened his wrists together.

The priest said nothing, didn’t struggle when he hoisted him up by the arm, draping him over the second horse; a skittish chestnut mare. Rounding the other side, he leveled the priest with an even glare. “We're going back to Stull and you're not going to give me any trouble. We clear?”

The priest didn’t answer and he took it as silent agreement.

Eventually, his stoic silence unnerved him.

The priest didn’t whisper a sound the half day’s ride it took to reach Hawkstone Peak. The sun disappeared behind the horizon, taking all the warmth with it. With Stull more than a day and a half away, the only choice he had was to break for camp beneath the watchful night sky. Stars blossomed, suspended against a backdrop of blackness. Beautiful if it hasn’t been for the cold, slithering up his skin and leaving him wanting. Not even the fire kept the chill away.

The priest sat cattycorner from him, quiet, with his wrists rope-bound behind his back. Dean studied the rosary, each intricately-carved wooden bead, the sound of them clicking together an echo in his brain. The bastard had killed with these, strangled the life out of Doctor Robert, Darla—because they’d been at the wrong place, wrong time. Innocent, good people who’d had the life torn from them.

“What goes through your head when you kill, priest?”

“Castiel—“

“I don’t care what your goddamn name is, _outlaw_ ,” he growled out. “I asked you a question!”

The priest clenched his jaw and looked away. His face contorted with… pain; an emotional anguish. “I mourn for their innocence. Each time I kill… a _demon_ , an innocent life is lost. The doctor, the woman…” The outlaw looked at him. “… unfortunate sacrifices. If I could stop it from happening, if I could stop this… horrible possession from taking place, God above knows I would.”

Dean huffed out a laugh, eyes dropping to the intricate beadwork. “You know what? I don't believe a single word of crap that's coming out of your mouth.”

“Dean—“

He narrowed his eyes. His name, falling from those lips, that mouth—something shuddered through him, something between revulsion and…

“You meanin' to tell me there's demons crawling about these parts?"

“Yes—“

“And you expect me to believe that!”

“You saw it with your own eyes,” the priest growled out. “The black eyes, the billow of smoke—blacker than night! You _felt_ the evil of that creature yet you deny its existence! Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it fear?” the priest asked. “Fear that something you can’t understand lives and breathes with us? That your friends, perhaps even your family, harbors these abominations?”

“Shut up,” he growled. “You don’t know nothin’ about my family.”

“Open your eyes, Dean,” the priest whispered. “The signs are there. Flickering lamplight, the pungent smell of rotten eggs. If anyone you know is a demon, if your family—“

Dean whipped out his gun and aimed it at him. “I said… _shut up_.”

The outlaw obeyed.

Dean took a deep breath and slipped the gun into its holster. Leaning back against the rock, he focused on the rosary again, feeling somewhat safer with the string of beads between his fingers. The howl of a distant coyote seized his muscles, tensing them under stress. Demons. Coyotes. Crazy fucking priests. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

“You ever thought you’re just seeing things?” he asked when the silence became too much.

The priest narrowed his eyes, frown deepening across his face. “I’m not… _seeing things_.” With the clench of his jaw, the outlaw angled his face away, staring out into the open plains. The slightly puckered bottom lip, his entire body language—muscles losing all rigidity in a single huff of a breath, body almost flopping back against the log. Same pouting bullshit Sammy pulled when he was a kid.

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. He would have looked away, dismissed him altogether—but a glimmer of light from the priest’s waistband caught his eye. The grip… of a _gun_. Shit. He should’ve searched him sooner for weapons. The fact that he’d forgotten—

Urgency lifted him off the ground, confident strides closing the distance between them. The priest whipped his head around and flinched back when he crouched beside him, when he shot a hand out to grab the gun.

“Don’t,” Castiel whispered, a soft pleading against his cheek.

Dean lifted his eyes, met that intense stare, and brought the weapon to bear, ignoring the quiet command. The long barrel. The decorative metalwork. The sign of the Devil on its grip. He frowned and regarded the outlaw again. “What’s a priest doing with the Devil’s gun?”

The priest steeled his jaw, looking away from his accusing stare.

“Nothing’s keeping me from blowing your brains out all over this camp, priest,” Dean growled. “So, when I ask a question, you _answer_ it.”

The priest licked his lips, setting them to glisten in the soft firelight. Dean couldn’t help but stare, chastising himself when he finally snapped back to reality. He’d be dim-witted to deny the allure this outlaw—this _Castiel_. It hit him square in the face when he pressed his hands to his chest, palming his warm sides. Searching for weapons, his fingers exploring every inch of him. Touching. _Wanting_.

Castiel sucked in a breath as his hands molded his angled hips, framing one of his toned thighs all the way down to his calf. The search yielded no results, no hidden weapons, but it wasn’t over. He dropped his fingers to those hips again, sharp spurs of hipbones raising the thin fabric of his trousers. Slowly, agonizingly, he reached around, circling his thin waist with his hands, searching along his waistband. Castiel emitted a noise past his lips—chaste; a whimper with an undercurrent of struggle and _need_. Dean closed his eyes and gravitated toward him, reaching, reaching; Castiel’s mouth close to his ear. When Castiel let loose a shuddering breath, traced the shell of his ear with his lips, Dean couldn’t resist angling his head closer—closer…

His fingers touched something hard and cool—steel—and broke him out of his reverie. As if he’d been hit, Dean stumbled back, ass hitting the dirt. His heart rang in his ears. Eyes blown wide, pupils almost black, Castiel gulped in air, swallowing hard.

_For fuck’s sake._

Dean gripped the object in his hand and gathered his composure. After all that, he’d found a steel flask, engraved with a cross. He uncorked it and took a whiff. Strong and pungent; not holy water at all but whiskey. Dean leveled him with a look and the priest shrugged, whispering, “Even priests aren’t without their sins.”

Dean exhaled half a laugh through his nose, retreating to his spot in the camp with the gun and flask of whiskey. The harsh liquor burned all the way down, dropping like a rock in his gut. He raised the Devil gun up for a second and took a swig of whiskey. “Start talkin’.”

“This will be… difficult to explain.”

“Try,” he said sternly.

“I ask you to keep an open mind—“

“It’s as open as it’s gonna be.”

The priest nodded, his face sorting through various emotions; a frown to display his inner frustration or thought; the betrayal of apprehension as he bit his bottom lip.

“I.. had a family once. Mother and father, sisters, brothers. We lived our lives on a cattle farm. It was… peaceful. Quiet. My sister Anna would gather eggs every morning while my older brother, Michael, tended to the cows. I can almost… smell my mother’s cooking. And my father—“ Castiel paused, his eyes focusing on a far-off place; where good memories lived and breathed. “Hardest working man I’ve ever known.”

Dean shifted his weight, letting his muscles relax. “What happened to them?”

“They were killed—“

“Raiders?”

“No,” Castiel whispered, “A yellow-eyed demon.”

Dean waited for the end of the joke, staring at him, holding onto his every breath. When it didn’t come, when the priest looked at him for a reaction, he choked back a laugh. “A yellow-eyed demon?”

The priest frowned. “Yes, a yellow-eyed demon.”

“Are you…” Dean balked, peering into the opening of the flask. “What’s in this crap? Crazy juice?”

“I’m not… _crazy_ ,” the priest hissed. “A yellow-eyed demon killed my family.”

“And what? Let me guess… this Devil gun’s supposed to kill it?”

“Y—yes. How did you know?”

“Do you really expect me to believe this bullshit? That a _demon_ with _yellow eyes_ killed your family?” His anger bubbled up from nowhere. “Let me tell you something, _Cas_. You don’t know nothin’ about anything when it comes to your family gettin’ slaughtered, okay? Now, I don’t know your real story. I don’t know if your family’s really dead, but I’m sure as shit that no family got killed by a yellow-eyed demon.”

Dean kicked back the last of the whiskey as the echo of pain hollowed him out. The priest watched him intently, the hurt on his face very real too. So real, so raw, that the sight of it made him regret not believing him at all.

“What do you know about pain?” Castiel asked quietly.

“A whole lot… a whole fuckin’ lot,” Dean answered quickly, shaking the flask. Empty.

“You lost family too.”

“Yeah, I did,” he whispered, eyes fixated on the flames. He kicked at a loose log and the fire flared to life, blasting heat on his face. The night’s chill nipped at his skin, just as it had that night—the night his family was killed. He crossed his arms over his chest and shuddered—because of the cold or the memories, he didn’t know.

“Happened in ’63. Back in Lawrence. Quantrill’s men sacked the town because we didn’t believe that black folk should be slaves. I was ten years old.” Dean huffed out a breath, picking at a hole in his trousers. “Poppa woke me up, told me to take my brother out of the house, to run as fast as I could. So, I did. I took little Sammy and ran into the corn fields, hid when those fuckers got too close. Couldn’t do nothin’ to stop my poppa from gettin’ killed. Momma too.” He clenched his jaw, balling his fist at his side. “I remember lookin’ back. The flames—they rose higher than I could see, right into the sky.” Dean pulled his eyes away from the fire, up to the night sky. “I couldn’t see them anymore—momma and poppa. But you can bet they died fightin’; fightin’ for what’s good and right. That’s what matters, you know.”

“My condolences for your loss…”

Dean shrugged.

“You and your brother—after that…”

“I took him to Uncle Bobby’s. He died of… Tub—something in the lungs couple years back. Lived a long life. Raised me and Sammy up good and strong.”

“And your brother?”

“Lost cause,” Dean clipped, waving a hand dismissively.

“You lost him too,” Castiel concluded.

“Nah,” Dean shrugged again. “He’s some big-time lawyer up in Dodge. Skipped out on the family business.”

“Which is…”

“Saving people, hunting outlaws—why am I telling you all this?”

The priest shrugged, giving him a sidelong glance. “Troubled souls often find it easy to air their grievances to those who trust in solely God.”

“Is that why you take matters into your own hands? Because you trust in God?”

The priest dropped his eyes to the ground, sealing his lips in a tight line. He heaved a breath and said, “I do God’s work.”

“You murder good folk. That’s all. No demons. Just.. _people_.” Dean shivered again, tightening his arms over his chest. “Your God’s not going to save you from justice, priest. Not this time. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

The conversation ended there. As the night wore on, as it became colder, he found himself drifting off into fantasies—of faraway places where he and Sammy, momma and poppa lived and ate happy. Back in the good ‘ol days of his childhood. Days of running around the town, mid-afternoon pies and nights of stories told by candlelight. He frowned them away under the harsh invisible hand of a sudden gust, blowing away his moment of serenity. Shivering, his mind raced to other things; of warm bodies under clean blankets, pressed closed as the Kansas winter ragged outside his window. That warm body, soft skin beneath his fingertips, became firm, hard muscle replacing the gentle curves of a woman. When that form became a _man_ , became _Castiel_ , he sucked in a cold breath and opened his eyes. The priest stared at him, for God knows how long, as if he knew his dirty thoughts, as if he could pluck them out of his head and chastise him for his sick deviance.

Then everything changed.

He narrowed his eyes as his head whirled, vision fuzzy and wits dulled. Fucking whiskey. It shouldn’t have affected him like this, making his brain soupy as if he’d drunk a whole saloon. Castiel smiled easy, leaning back against the log. His expression bore a somewhat smug look, a cat that’d caught a mouse—a train robber looking over his loot.

“We all have our weaknesses, Dean,” the priest whispered. “Gambling. _Whiskey_. Sins of the flesh.”

He shook his head as another wave of dizziness swarmed his head. “What’d—what’d you put in the whiskey?” The quirk on the priest’s lips revealed the truth. “Son of a bitch. You _drugged_ me.”

“I couldn’t risk it. I can’t have you ruining my life’s work.”

The priest stood up, graceful and light on his feet, wrists still bound tight behind his back. Dean startled and palmed the Devil’s gun, aiming at his head. “Sit down!”

The outlaw kept on coming.

“I said.. sit down!”

Two steps separated them. He cocked the gun, trying desperately to steady his shaking hand. “I swear to God.. I’ll blow your head clean off.”

A surge of energy, like liquid lightning, coursed through his veins as the priest spreads his legs over him, one boot on either side of his thighs. Castiel lowered himself down, straddling his hips, and didn’t flinch when Dean put the long barrel in the hollow spot behind his ear lobe. “I’ll do it, goddamnit.”

His bravado made his cock hard, aching in his trousers. The pressure of his hips against him, the barely-there wiggle and grind— _fuck_. His ribs created a prison around his lungs; couldn’t breathe. Too fucking turned on to _think_. “Y—you got a death wish or something?”

“Do you, _boy_?” Castiel whispered close to his lips, his breath ghosting over his face. The priest’s blue eyes locked with his own then fell to his mouth. “I should kill you.”

“What are you waiting for? _Do it_ ,” Dean said hoarsely, breathlessly.

Castiel stared at his lips, parting his mouth as he circled his hips slowly, grinding in his lap. Dean held his breath and closed his eyes—

—and accidentally pulled the trigger. He let out a gasp, shortchanging his lungs of air, his brain of activity. It clicked harmlessly; no bullets in the barrel. The shock, the thrill of near-death, of _losing him_ —they locked eyes… and their world unraveled around them.

Dean threw the gun aside as Castiel bridged the meager distance between them and crushed their mouths together. He let out a groan, the fever-pitch of their kiss hotter than the flames of Lawrence. Their tongues searched while his hands roamed over Castiel’s body, fingers fumbling for the skin beneath clothing. He thought of untying him, of allowing his hands to touch and grab but decided against it. The notion of him escaping, of leaving him behind, cold and alone—

The thought tumbled away as Castiel let out another groan. Quick fingers pulled impatiently at the cassock, the buttons falling away with a jerk of hands. An acreage of well-toned muscle awaited his tongue, hard nipple caught between his lips, sucked hard and without remorse. The priest called out into the night, launching up on his knees, leveling his chest more evenly with his mouth. Dean nipped at him, growling low in his throat as another moan erupted from Castiel’s lips. He kissed a line from his nipple to the soft spot between his shoulder and neck, bit it before teething the shell of his ear. The burn started to build low in his balls, twisting and pulling, as Castiel pivoted his hips, grinding their hard cocks together. Eager fingers slipped past Castiel’s waistband, brushing against the wet tip of his cock. Castiel called out against his neck, clipping it short by sucking hard on his earlobe.

“Goddamnit.”

Dean pushed him back and off him; Castiel landing on his back, splayed and surprised. He yanked at his boots and trousers, exposing his naked bottom-half to the air; his cock stood proud and thick, flushed at the head. He tore his eyes away and spat on his hand, rubbing down his cock before Castiel could climb on top of him again. The priest didn’t hesitate to spear himself, splitting him in two. Castiel yelled out his pain, but took enjoyment in it if his expression was any indication—between agony and pure, unadulterated bliss.

Castiel slipped up and down his hard shaft, hands bound behind his back. Like this, in the light, taking control and riding him like he was, he looked beautiful—more beautiful than any woman. He forgot who he was in that moment, where he’d come from; his past, his pain. The real and now was the way Castiel’s muscles rippled beneath his soft skin, his warmth; the tight grip of him around his cock. Dean dove into his collarbone, kissing it, sucking it, while his hands raked over his back, bumping over… _scars_. Long, raised lines over his spine as if he’d been whipped, mutilated by some unknown horror. Castiel whimpered and arched his back into the loving touch, throat exposed to the sky. Dean kissed his neck in apology, for a crime he didn’t commit. Kissed away the pain and suffering with the gentle brush of lips. Fucking out of pure lust had become something sweeter; beautiful in its delicacy. A rebirth, a chance at something new—

Or just another fantasy.

With a growl, Castiel flipped the rope around his neck, having unbound his wrists under what must have been at act of God. Dean called out and tried to claw at him, scrabbling fingers down his own throat. The priest fought, tightening, tightening, mercilessly choking the life out of him. Didn’t stop rocking his body against him, choking him while fucking him at the same time. The prospect of dying, the brutality of the act in of itself—Dean came harder than he ever had, exhaling the last ounce of his breath. His chest heaved, his world grew dark and then—

:::

Dean woke to the sun on his face, the dry Kansas breeze against his bare—he widened his eyes, body parallel to the ground and unable to move. He struggled, but his wrists and legs were bound. Hogtied. Butt-naked. He took several deep breaths, using the fluid motion to keep himself calm.

Until he heard the tell-tale familiar rattle.

He whipped his head at an angle, a rattler staring him down and tasting the air with its tongue. His muscles tensed and he didn’t move a hair, rigid with the fear. He’d fucking die out here, alone, naked. Fucking way to go.

From above him, a black boot appeared first; Castiel hovering over it, elbow-to-knee, leaning his chin against his hand. The smug smile on his face—fucker.

“Couldn’t leave me, could’ja?” Dean eased between a shudder of nervousness, as charming as the fucking snake inches from his face. “It’s because I’m adorable, isn’t it?”

Castiel huffed out a laugh, dropping his eyes to the snake as it hissed and rattled its tail. “I’ll make this short, Dean,” he began, suave and casual. “Come with me.”

“And what? Kill _demons_ and shit? I’d have better luck with the coyotes.”

“Yes, I imagine you would,” the priest oozed. “But not with our hungry friend here. She’s growing impatient. One bite and you’ll be dead in minutes.”

Dean stared at the snake, its beady eyes blood-thirsty.

“Life… or death,” Castiel whispered. “Let me show you the truth about demons.”

The snake jerked forward, hissing, and Dean mirrored it, snapping his head back and hitting his skull against the log. His heart nearly exploded from his chest from the rush.

“Will you—“

“Yes! Fine… call off your fucking snake.”

Castiel moved but he couldn’t see. The bastard crouched in front of the snake, catching her attention. She shifted her body, coiling tighter, tighter, hissing toward him. He danced fingers in front of her, darted them forward—she struck but missed, allowing his other hand to snap out and grab her by the head. One fluid snatch of fingers. Practically inhuman. With the snake’s head between three fingers, he cooed her, whispering sweet nothings before striding to the brushes—possibly to let her go. “All of God’s creatures are beautiful,” he’d heard. Bunch of bullshit.

Dean took his chances, struggled against his bonds with no luck. Castiel came back seconds later, the swagger in his step almost cocky. It was no wonder; he just bagged the best prize in all of Kansas. The priest grabbed his left shoulder and dragged him toward his girl, his beautiful black mare. The rough ground ripped into his knees and legs but Castiel didn’t care; ignored his goddamn cries of pain. The priest hoisted him up, folding him easily over his girl’s back, and tied him down nice and secure.

“Hey!” he yelled, struggling. “Untie me!”

“No.”

“What—“ he gawked. "Untie me, you son of a bitch!"

“Be quiet,” the priest said, stuffing a rag in his mouth. The hard slap on his naked ass made him jerk.

They rode off into the sunset—a naked, gagged sheriff and a priest—on the hunt for a yellow-eyed demon.  



End file.
